


Counting Stars

by Liron_aria



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Past Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 08:45:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5041729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liron_aria/pseuds/Liron_aria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What happened to you on the island?"</p>
<p>"... Don't ask me that, Tommy. I'm drunk enough that I just might answer."</p>
<p>A quiet night, a bottle of tequila, and Tommy learns what he shouldn't have wanted to about Lian Yu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Forlorn Kumquat (sara_wolfe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_wolfe/gifts).



> There is a tragic dearth of Tommy Merlyn/Oliver Queen fics out there, especially with them talking about Oliver's past. I decided to fix it.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Arrow. DC Comics and the CW do.

It’s nice, hanging like this. Just them and a bottle of Cuervo. They haven’t gotten to do it much since Oliver got back. Something’s always just a bit _off_ thanks to the island, or something always comes up. For - reasons?

 

“Hey, Ollie?"

 

“Mmm yeah, what’s up?"

 

Tommy blinks, because he’s pretty sure Oliver’s more drunk right now than he has been since he came home. “What happened to you on the island?"

 

“… Don’t ask me that, Tommy."

 

Tommy huffs, because he’s pretty buzzed, too. “Aw, come on, man, why the Hell not?"

 

Okay, no, he’s probably full-out drunk.

 

Oliver stares at the tequila like it’s betrayed him and replies, “I’m probably drunk enough to answer."

 

Tommy’s not sure why that’s a bad thing, because Lord knows Oliver needs to talk to _someone_  - how do you keep five years of your life, like 20%!, locked away, anyway. “So, what happened to you on the island?"

 

“Yao Fei shot me with an arrow.” Oliver blinks, surprised at himself, and then takes another swig. A large one.

 

“… Who’s Yao Fei?"

 

“Chinese war criminal,” Oliver replies, and then quickly defends, “He wasn’t a bad guy, though! He taught me to survive on the island. And - _and_ , he saved me from Wintergreen when Fyers had him torture me!"

 

Oliver is clearly a lot more drunk than either of them realised, and Tommy becomes stone cold sober at the word ‘torture.'

 

His voice is strangled when he asks, “You were tortured?"

 

Oliver refills his glass. “Fyers wanted to know how I got on the island and what I knew about Yao Fei. I wasn’t exactly forthcoming."

 

“Oh my God… Ollie, I - I’m sorry, man."

 

Oliver shrugs as if it doesn’t matter, and Tommy’s suddenly hyperaware that Oliver’s _drunk_  while he’s _sober_ , and probably only half-knows what he’s saying, so he has no business asking any of this of him.

 

“Y’know, looking back, it wasn’t that bad in comparison,” Oliver continues, replacing everything in Tommy’s mind with pure, unadulterated horror.

 

“Not that bad?” Tommy asks weakly, and then wants to kick himself, because prolonging this conversation is the exact opposite of what he should be doing. Oliver’s his best friend, _more_  than, and this is a betrayal of the worst kind.

 

Oliver, however, is too drunk to care - to understand? - and nods, open and trusting and sad. “Slade did a lot worse. The mirakuru fucked him up, and he was angry that I got Shado killed. He didn’t leave as many scars, but the electrocution was way worse. I’d have taken a knife or another bullet over that."

 

_Another_  bullet. Because before this round of torture, Oliver had been shot. With a gun. And Oliver had been tortured enough the the had a scale of which method was worse than the other.

 

“Though I think being waterboarded was the worst,” Oliver muses.

 

He’s going to be sick.

 

“I think you’ve had enough to drink, buddy."

 

Oliver nods mournfully as Tommy clears away the glasses and the alcohol. He used to be a much different drunk when they were younger, happy and reckless. But new Oliver is a new drunk, too.

 

And then Oliver blurts out, “I didn’t want to hurt you."

 

Tommy stills. “You didn’t, Ollie."

 

“I _did,_ ” Oliver insists, heartbroken. “I did, and I’m sorry, you have to believe me -"

 

“Ollie, Ollie -“ Oh, God, Oliver is about to cry. After the string of nightmares he's just spilled, _now_  he’s about to cry. Tommy grabs his shoulder, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey, it’s okay, Ollie. You didn’t hurt me, okay? None of this - what you said - I’m not hurt. I’m glad you trusted me."

 

If anything, he’s the one who should be apologising.

 

Instead, Oliver looks lost and miserable and whatever he’s beating himself up about, Tommy has to put a stop to it, because Oliver should _never_  look like that. He shakes Oliver a little, just once, to catch his attention. “Ollie. You didn’t hurt me."

 

He’s pretty sure Oliver doesn’t hear a word, because hie eyes are wet as he says desperately, “They were going to kill you. They told me to kill you because you wouldn’t stop looking, but I _wouldn’t,_  I could never - so I had to convince you to stop or they would just use another sniper -"

 

Hong Kong. The memory hits Tommy in a cold rush, of when he’d gotten a ping off one of Oliver’s email accounts and rushed to search for him in Hong Kong. he’d been kidnapped and beaten and returned home with his last spark of hope extinguished.

 

“You kidnapped me,” he says numbly, rocking back. “You _beat_  me. I tried to bring you _home_  and you - you -"

 

“I’m sorry,” Oliver says, voice cracking, “I couldn’t let them kill you. I would kill and torture Shrieve and his men a hundred times over before I let them touch you -"

 

“Did you even want to come home?"

 

_“Yes.”_ Something in his voice tells Tommy that Oliver might be sober by now, too. “I swear, all I wanted was to come home with you. Please, Tommy."

 

Oliver looks broken and devastated in front of him and suddenly Tommy’s burning rage because fuck this Slade and Fyers and whoever else, fuck the whole damn universe, for putting Oliver through for five years of torture and killing and who knows what else.

 

“I’m sorry, Tommy."

 

Yeah, fuck that noise.

 

He lurches forward and grabs Oliver’s collar, crushing their lips together. The kiss tastes of salt and liquor and desperation, but Oliver’s pressing back against him, clawing at his shoulders. They break apart, panting harshly. Oliver’s pupils are dark and wide, and Tommy has to wonder what his own face looks like, because Oliver looks wild and _hungry_  and he is most definitely _not_  drunk, because drunk people don’t kiss like -

 

_\- holyjesusfuckgod -_

They stumble back, only separating for air and probably to get rid of their shirts, because they’ve disappeared and Tommy’s not entirely sure how or when. Oliver gasps as Tommy’s lips press against the column of his throat and Tommy shivers at the rough calluses scraping across his skin. Tommy’s fingers trail down a scar, intent on mapping it out, and Oliver does sinful, _sinful_  things with his mouth to make him forget what he’s doing.

 

Oliver’s going to be pissed as Hell in the morning and will probably kill him, or worse, not speak to him for the rest of his life, but none of that matters. What matters is that Oliver’s here, warm and solid against Tommy. He’s real and he’s home and Tommy is never, ever letting him go. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts?


End file.
